


Give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light.

by LT_Aldo_Raine



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Magic, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Episode: s01e06 Bastogne, F/M, Magical Realism, Post-War, Stolen Moments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:08:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22958455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LT_Aldo_Raine/pseuds/LT_Aldo_Raine
Summary: When the young nurse used her magic, Gene felt it in his bones. Her power was spectacular. It radiated from within her like the first rays of light at dawn, brilliant and beautiful as they illuminated and gave life to the dark world around them.OR: As an Empath who endures the emotions of all those around him, Gene is drowning in the darkness as he attempts to survive the Siege of Bastogne until he meets a lovely French nurse who exudes tranquility. When he discovers that she, too, is magic, Gene wonders if their meeting is some kind of fate.
Relationships: Renee LeMaire/Eugene Roe
Comments: 14
Kudos: 18
Collections: Heavy Artillery Rare Pair Exchange 2020





	Give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Impala_Chick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impala_Chick/gifts).



> title from Mumford & Son's _Ghosts That We Knew_  
>  un-beta'd

"A few hundred years ago there was no difference between magic and medicine."  
—Joanne Harris

_If war is hell, then the Bois Jacques forest on the outskirts of Bastogne, Belgium, must be Lucifer’s personal headquarters_. Gene thought this, and only this, for the duration of the bumpy ride to the aid station as he cradled Skinny Sisk’s hand to calm him, the wounded trooper splayed across the hood of the Jeep, the driver—an overexcited fella from 3d battalion—chatting animatedly about the dire situation in Bastogne.

When they arrived in the ruins of the once quaint Belgian town, the driver stopped at the cathedral on Rue de Neufchateau. A white and red medical flag was suspended above the open double doors. Gene helped load Skinny onto a stretcher, told the boys carrying him to take it easy—the trooper’d taken a mortar hit and had refused morphine to help save Gene’s supply, which had dwindled dangerously, pitifully low—, and followed the men into the church crypt.

On the way, Gene couldn’t stop his stomach from turning at the sight of the dead, the corpses stacked in a snowbank just outside the cathedral’s entrance, their bodies abandoned to the elements.

Inside the basement of the three-hundred-year-old church, Gene encountered a touch of warmth for the first time since Easy Company had arrived in Belgium. But it was not a welcome warmth. It was suffocating, the heat produced by heaps of wounded soldiers crammed into every inch of available space in the crypt. Men were laid across planks slapped together atop empty wine crates or huddled in the spaces between the Corinthian columns that supported the vaulted ceiling in rows. Some, those with lesser wounds, were forced to stand or sit, propped against the stone walls. And as Gene descended into the dank basement behind Skinny’s stretcher, the _smell_ of it hit him like a wave.

The place smelled of death.

Of infection. Of blood. Of excrement.

The force of it was quite sudden and potent enough that Gene’s stomach tightened, his gag reflex awaking with a start, and he had to take a very deliberate breath before continuing forward.

More importantly, Gene had to brace himself for what was coming. Just after the sight and the smell of it all, _then_ came the emotion.

His knees buckling under him, the young medic wobbled like a colt, and he nearly tumbled down the stone steps. Forced to steady himself against the wall, his hands shaking, Gene squeezed his eyes shut—a useless attempt to block out the abrupt onslaught of agony. It was all _pain, pain, pain,_ the physical torture of broken bones and seared flesh and ruptured intestines mixed together with a worse, more bitter, bodiless torment comprised of a cocktail of shame and fear and terror. There were feelings, too, of drowsiness, of numbness. He suspected those were coming from the soldiers hopped up on morphine or who simply no longer cared whether or not they lived or died.

He hadn’t thought it could get worse—not worse than the Bois Jacques, not worse than the hell his company was enduring those miserable, horrible days—, but in the crypt, it was like someone had taken all of the raw emotion Gene’s men had sustained out on the line and stuffed it all inside of him at once.

The Empath could hardly stand it. 

“Oh, no, no, no—!” A feminine voice cut through the soft white noise of the improvised ward. In a gentle, but firm tone that carried the lilt of a French accent, the nurse instructed, “ _Here,_ put him here.”

Gene blinked, rapidly, summoning every ounce of strength he had to shut out the emotional impressions of those around him—a task that had become increasingly difficult since Easy’s arrival in Belgium. The young medic followed Skinny’s stretcher as the soldiers placed him, as delicately as they could, atop the table as the nurse had indicated.

“Is he bad?”

It took Gene a moment to realize that the nurse had directed the question to him. “No, lower leg wound,” he replied, then added, “No morphine.”

The nurse gave a distracted nod as she assessed Skinny’s wound, peeking briefly underneath the bandage before twisting on her heel and gliding toward another one of her patients, from whom she began to collect worn wound dressings. The sight of the soiled supplies reminded Gene of his purpose in accompanying Skinny to the aid station. “Nurse—” He began, hastening to follow her. “Have you got plasma I can—”

With a polite but frank glance, the young nurse beseeched him, “Wait, please,” halting Gene in his tracks. Lingering at Skinny’s side, Gene attempted to tamp down his impatience. With every second that passed in the crypt-turned-medical-ward, it became harder and harder for Gene to hold the tumult of emotions at bay.

His fingers twitched at his sides.

The medic distracted himself until the nurse was available. He watched a doctor gauge the severity of a neck wound, helplessly. Watched a dark-skinned nurse clean a laceration that sliced across a boy’s ribs. Watched the French nurse boil bandages for re-use. And all around him, the harrowing impressions of the suffering continued to pulse, attacking his weak defenses.

 _I can help them._ The thought crept up of its own volition, and sure enough, the tips of his fingers began to tingle. Even as a child before he’d truly began to foster his abilities, Gene had hated to see anyone in pain. Now, in the thicket of the world’s biggest war, he longed to help, to ease the pain and misery of all those around him. But a quick glance at Skinny was enough to restore Gene’s resolve. He was there to get plasma for _his_ men. He had to reserve his strength for them. Feeling a surge of anger at being so goddamn useless, Gene turned to the medic closest and demanded to know, “Hey, what’s going on here? Why ain’t these men evacuated?”  
  
“We can’t evacuate, we’re cut off. This is as far as it goes.” The medic’s reply was bleak, his tone heavy and devoid of feeling. Gene felt his exhaustion. When his fellow medic turned to move to the next soldier down the line, Gene’s gaze trailed after him, a frown curling the Empath’s lips. Lord, how he hated this war.

When the nurse finally returned to Skinny’s side, she brought along a bottle of alcohol and a small tumbler. She poured Skinny a glass, a small token of relief, while the dark-skinned nurse appeared on the trooper’s other side, fretting about his leg wound as Gene watched on with a strange sort of detachment, attempting as he was to combat the onslaught of emotional turmoil drowning him inside the crypt.

“Ça va?”  
  
“C’est n’est pas grave. C’est n’est pas urgent,” the French nurse replied to her assistant as she raised a filthy hand to brush back the damp locks clinging to Skinny’s brow. The trooper’s eyes flickered shut at the gentle touch, and when they reopened, it was Gene toward whom he stared. “I’m in heaven, Doc.”

Gene thought, violently, that there could be no place on God’s earth further from Heaven that this wretched place, but Skinny was, at least momentarily, at peace, and for that Gene was grateful. So, the medic offered a small smile, which he hoped didn’t communicate the permanent tension he carried as of late, while the nurse gave her own weak grin with a small utterance of _merci_. Apparently confident that her aid could treat Skinny’s wounds, the French nurse turned to leave.  
  
But not before Gene called after her.   
  
Dull gray eyes found his own. She seemed to sigh as she remembered him. “This way,” she murmured, giving a sharp jut of her chin before moving swiftly through the ward.

Gene paused briefly before following, sparing a comforting glance with Skinny to assure the trooper that Gene was leaving him in good hands. Unable to stop himself, Gene reached for the soldier’s shoulder, lean fingers reaching to brush the skin of Skinny’s neck. Gene allowed the magic to flow forward—a gentle, soothing wave of nothing but _calm, calm, calm,_ this sense that _everything was going to be okay, he was safe and warm and loved._ Skinny’s face grew slack with peace even as Gene’s touch receded, his magic lingering behind. The wounded trooper offered Gene a small smile as the medic retreated, navigating through the maze of bodies behind the nurse. 

“I need morphine, I need bandages,” he called, following her into a side chapel that obviously doubled as a supply store for the makeshift hospital. “Whatever you’ve got.”  
  
“Okay, I can give you a little, but not a lot.” She handed him a crate from atop an elaborate golden altar and began to fill it with various odds and ends that she was willing to spare— _bed sheets as bandages_ , Gene was equal parts horrified at their lack of proper equipment and impressed at their ingenuity and resilience—, and as Gene negotiated with her over plasma—a highly coveted resource under the best of circumstances, much less when cut off from the rest of war effort—, he couldn’t help but notice the way the light caught the few wisps of hair that had fallen loose from her headscarf, chocolate curls frizzing around her forehead. He also observed that she was the lone figure in the church basement who didn’t seep emotion—pain or otherwise.

Gene could read nothing from her but the quiet whisper of a determined sort of a calm. 

Standing next to her and siphoning a modicum of her peace, Gene nearly achieved a touch of tranquility in the dank basement, the young nurse providing the first breath of relief Gene had felt in ages. As such, her presence was nothing short of intoxicating.

When she smiled at him, gesturing his stocked crate with a simple _voilà_ , and resumed her duties, Gene gave in to boyish impulse—he followed.

“Comment vous appelez-vous?”  
  
“My name is Renée.”  
  
_Renée._ His lips quirked. It was a pretty name. _For a pretty woman._ “I’m Gene,” he offered as they moved through toward the stairs, the nurse flittering between patients along the way. “Eugene Roe.”  
  
He was surprised to discover the scope of his own delight when she inquired about his roots, though he suspected she was merely humoring him. Perhaps she was interested in his oddly accented French—or maybe she was curious about the intensity Gene often radiated when under a great amount of emotional distress. Either way, the Empath was pleased to hover within her serene atmosphere just a little longer, and he promptly informed her, hefting the supply box higher in his grasp, that he was half-Cajun and from the great southern state of Louisiana.

“Et toi? D’ou viens tu?”

At the foot of the stone steps which curved toward the sunlight filtering in from above, the nurse—Renée—almost laughed, palms towards the vaulted ceiling and the God whose stories it depicted in a helpless gesture. “ _Bastogne_.”

Then, she was gone, disappearing in a twirl of skirts and aprons, hands checking dressings and prodding wounds, and Gene slowly ascended the stairs, his breaths coming easier with every step. Feet flat on the cobblestone street, dusted with the rubble of a dozen destroyed homes and shops, Gene did his best to muffle a gasp of relief as his magical connection to the wounded soldiers finally seeped away and his own emotional state levelled out.

Before the war, Gene had thought his ability was a gift from God himself. Back home, Gene had found purpose in his ability to ease the misery of others. But the war and its catastrophic scale of pain and suffering more often than not left Gene feeling hopeless and useless, if not permanently overwhelmed.

Now, sometimes, Gene regretted his magic. Sometimes in the dark of night, burrowed in his foxhole, Gene would give himself over to dangerous, selfish fantasies about how much easier all of this would be if he was just _normal._  
  
Amid the ruins of Bastogne, the medic secured a ride back to the line, barely remembering to grab a pair of spare boots—spare now that their owner was dead—for Joe Toye, and was making his way towards the Jeep when his name rang out across the Belgian square. The French nurse stood in the light, a wide smile on her lips, the cathedral looming behind her against a gray sky, and Gene’s heart fluttered nervously inside his chest. A hummingbird in a cage. When she threw the chocolate bar at him, Gene was so damn stunned that he barely caught it, cradling the candy and boots to his chest.

As the Jeep drove away from Bastogne—towards the Bois Jacques, towards the line, towards his company—, Gene forced himself not to look back to see if Renée was still standing in the snow.

* * *

That night on the line, after his rounds were done and the supplies were divided between himself and Spina, Gene drifted into a shallow slumber accompanied by half-thoughts of soft dimples and curved laugh lines and full lips, the chocolate bar tucked securely inside his jacket and pressed against his heart.

* * *

As Christmas grew closer, things out on the line were steadily going from bad to worse. Good men continued to die. Those who survived continued to suffer from an array of ailments and maladies, none the least of which was the constant, bitter cold. Everyone’s everything was chapped and cracked, their skin as brittle as their malnourished bones—how Gene longed for a hot summer’s sun and the stifling humidity of Louisiana. But more than the physical torment, Easy was plagued by the lowest morale the company had experienced since their first drop. As men like Compton slowly succumbed to their own pain, and guys like Heffron grieved the loss of brothers-in-arms, Gene found himself in a near-constant state of desperation, his abilities incredibly strained.

Given the despair in the Bois Jacques, the supply drop couldn’t have come at a better time.

Gene rode with Lipton and the others into Bastogne. While they scattered to scavenge ammunition, fresh rations, and, hopefully, winter gear for their men, Gene once more found his way to the church where he knew any medical supplies would have been gathered for the pilfer.

Of course, she was there.

Arms laden with equipment gleaned from a successful drop, Gene stood beneath the blue vaulted ceiling with its faded effigies of patron saints, entranced as he watched Renée spoon feed a wounded soldier. He realized, with a frown, that he wanted to approach her. To tell her about the chocolate bar, about Heffron and Julian. To feel an ounce of the comforting serenity she unknowingly provided, if only for a moment.

Then—  
  
“Medic! _Medic_! Someone give us a hand, here! Help! _Help_!”  
  
A flurry of activity broke out in the crypt. The trooper in question was severely wounded, and they placed him atop a stone slab inside one of the side chapels beneath angelic streams of light pouring in from the raised windows that looked out onto the street above. Renée was at the man’s side in an instant—and that was when Gene felt it. _Renée’s panic._

Without thought, he lowered the supply box in his lands, immediately, making his way to the young nurse’s side. Along with her panic—and the pain of every other single soul in the cathedral basement’s ward—, Gene also felt _this man’s_ pain. Unlike so many of the others, the wounded trooper’s pain was shallow, almost detached, and it was accompanied by a great deal of sorrow. The man was dying, and he knew it.

At Renée’s side, Gene reached for the dying man, and together, the two of them stripped the trooper of his shirt, revealing a pool of blood bathing the man’s torso and abdomen. Lord, Gene was so goddamn tired of all the blood. There was so much of it, too much of it, almost, to find the offending wound.

“La pression est se trouve a l’artère,” said Renée. _To him? To herself?_

Gene mumbled his agreement, watching as Renée’s shaking fingers slipped into the wound to find—"The artery, gotta find the artery.” Her struggle was obvious, both her panic and tremors worsening as the trooper continued to lose blood like they were paying him for it. If she didn’t clamp down on the artery soon, the man would die within seconds.

Instinctively, Gene wrapped his hand around her elbow, his magic surging forward to calm her, to steady her hand so that she could at least _try_ to save this man’s life.

Only, the moment their skin brushed, he knew what she was. _Magic._ His own preternatural capabilities immediately recognized and sought out her own. She was like him—he could _feel it_. Except, she wasn’t. Her magic was—different. Older, perhaps. Stronger, certainly.

Blue eyes met his own with a hard look, and below her, the trooper began to spasm.

Gene urged his power forward, a blanket of tranquility wrapping itself around Renée, settling over her trembling shoulders, a grounding weight, anchoring her to the moment, to the problem. Within seconds, she gasped, “Ah ha!” At last, the artery.

When the young nurse used her magic, Gene felt it in his bones. Her power was spectacular. It radiated from within her like the first rays of light at dawn, brilliant and beautiful as they illuminated and gave life to the dark world around them. The young Empath watched, mesmerized, as the blood from the artery, miraculously, ceased to spurt, the wounded man’s own convulsions halting abruptly. Slowly, color began to return to the trooper’s ashen face as his breathing appeared to even out. Two fingers on the man’s wrist told Gene that even his pulse seemed to steady.

He was going to live. Renée had saved him, after all.

With a glance at Gene, Renée began to holler for the other nurse— _Anna_ —, who came immediately, and as the dark-skinned nurse moved to set up a plasma transfusion and attend the wound, the women exchanged a profound look. Anna now in control of the situation, and Renée’s natural, resilient calm fully restored, the French nurse stepped away from the table, wiping her bloodied hands on her tattered apron, and asked, gaze pointedly fixed elsewhere, “Eugene? Viens avec moi, plait.”

Outside, the morning’s clear skies had held out. No snow, no fog. Though still cold and hellish, the world was at least bright. Gene took a sobering breath, glad to be free from the improvised aid station and the torment of the men trapped there. He still endured their emotions, of course, but their effects lessened with every step he took away from the cathedral doors.

They sat on a pair of chairs that had not yet been shattered into kindling, the snow beneath their feet. Across the square, a trio of soldiers held their hands to a fire. Gene’s thoughts flickered briefly to his men, huddling in frozen foxholes in the snowy forest outside town. While he waited for Renée to speak, Gene’s eyes followed the dancing flames as they licked the shivering palms of the men. He wondered at the sensation of the heat against their skin, felt a nasty envy curl up his spine and coil in his chest. It was an ugly and visceral sensation—and the strength of it caught Gene by surprise.

The emotion was not his own.

Hovering at the open doors of the church, a young and blood-covered trooper stood, hands grasping at the stone entrance as he glared something fierce at the men warming themselves by the fire. No doubt, Gene thought, this man had been on the line—had been in the tundra that was the Bois Jacques. No doubt, he too was thinking of his brothers still stuck there and devoid of any ounce of warmth, much less the luxury of a burning fire.

Gene studied the furious soldier long enough to feel confident that the man’s rage would not manifest into violence, then he turned to Renée, who peered at him with a relentless curiosity settled amongst her soft features. The medic gave a sheepish grin, suddenly feeling quite boyish—and exposed. Realizing that _she_ was waiting for _him_ to speak, Gene cleared his throat and leaned forward so that his elbows rested on his knees. He didn’t look at her as he began. “Ma grand-mère, she was a _traiteuse..._ ”

The word dripped heavily off his tongue, as it always did. “She healed folks, ya know? Made their wounds just…disappear. Didn’t matter if it was a runny nose or a broken bone, she could make it better.” A fondness had crept into his voice, his words flowing with a wistful cadence. He sure did miss his grand-momma. It had been so long since he had truly had someone who understood, someone who knew the difficultly of working with magic, someone who also shared the burden of being gifted and the corresponding responsibility.

Licking his lips, Gene laid his hands in his lap, flexing his fingers to fight the near-constant twitch. “My momma told me that during the Spanish influenza, folks would come from parishes as far as Bossier and Caddo to have my grand-momma heal ‘em.”

“And you?” Renée’s voice was pinched.

“Me?” He almost snorted. “No, no. I don’t… I can’t heal ‘em. I can just take the pain away.”

She made a throaty murmur of recognition. “You are…ah, comment tu dis ça… _empathie_?”

“Oui. An Empath,” Gene corrected, gently, the corners of his lips lifting into a small smile. Finally, Renée was relaxed enough that Gene dared to ask. “Et toi? Are you a traiteuse…?”

He knew that she had used magic to seal up the artery, and she knew that he had used his own gifts to assist her through the procedure. For her to deny it now—especially as Gene had given her a name to his own abilities—would be all but pointless. Still, Gene wondered if she would. He of all people knew that fear was a mighty powerful thing.

Blushing, the young nurse faced the street as she replied, “Oui, je pense. Mais, my people call it _guérisseuse_.”

“ _Guérisseuse.”_ He tested his mouth around the word, not bothering to quell his excitement. He had never met someone with magic outside of his own kin, and even then, Gene’s extended family were not as supernaturally inclined as he and his grandmother. He had only one cousin, Marcel, with whom Gene shared his gifts. The magic had skipped even his own father. “You were born with it?”

“Oui, bien sûr." As her embarrassment gently colored the edges of his abilities, Gene wondered if she had ever spoken with anyone about her magic—he also entertained the fleeting thought that shyness looked awful pretty on Renée. Tucking a stray hair back into her headscarf, Renée quickly redirected the conversation back to him. “You can change how others feel…do you feel what they do, as well?”

“Oui.”

“Mon Dieu.” Renée’s sympathy lashed at him. Eyes blown wide, her gaze flittered around the destruction surrounding them. “How do you stand it? How do you stand being here?”

“Same way you do, I suppose.”

“I cannot imagine…There is only suffering here, only pain. Doesn’t it drive you mad?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes, I can shut it all out.”

He felt her fear as she asked, “And when you cannot?”

“I draw strength from others. Our former company commander, he’s strong. He feels, deeply, but he’s got this amazing control over his emotions. There’s another guy—scrawny, another red-headed fella—, his feelings are wild, all over the place, but he’s good about stayin’ cool around me. I think he, well, I think he’s worried I’m gonna break. When I can’t…I draw strength from them.” It was more honest a reply than he’d intended, his words spilling out, water over the falls, and he just knew the tips of his ears were touched with pink. Especially when he summoned the courage to add, “And from you.”

“Moi?” Renée blinked. “ _Comment_ …?”

“You’re so calm. When I’m near you, its easier to focus…easier to breathe.”

It was Renée’s turn to snort. “I do not _feel_ calm.”

Gene’s lips twitched into a smirk. “Actually, you do,” he remarked somewhat playfully, earning him a swat on the leg. Renée’s brow furrowed thoughtfully as she contemplated aloud, “Perhaps it seems like calm to you…pour moi, c’est concentration. There is always so much happening at once here. I feel like I am never enough.”

“You’re a good nurse, Renée.” He quite enjoyed the way her name tasted. “What you have…it’s a gift from God.”

“Is it?” The weight of her stare was more than he cared to admit. “Would God give such a painful thing?”

Before Gene could reply, an army Jeep peeled across the town square, men spilling over from its side with cries for help. Renée rose to her feet instantly, casting one final glance at Gene before tearing across the broken cobbles to aid her newest patient. Gene sighed as he heard a medic explain that the men had taken a load of shrapnel, the troopers’ pain already crawling its way up his spine. He shuddered, fighting the latest onslaught of external emotion. Suppressing the men’s agony, Gene’s magic began to unfurl, reaching desperately, unconsciously towards Renée. As she began to bark orders, her natural, composed focus took hold, and Gene curled himself inside it, waited for it to fill his every crevice before he stood to offer his assistance.

In the basement, their hands moving in time to treat the latest casualties of the siege on Bastogne, their eyes met briefly. An Empath. A Healer. Two magical people who had lived utterly different lives brought together during one of the world’s worst moments to bring a little light, a little hope. To save others above themselves. Gifts from God or burdens from the devil—in that second, Gene was grateful for his magic and the war. Because without either, he wouldn’t have met her.

* * *

When Smokey Gordon was paralyzed, Gene pondered the potential significance behind the fact that his opportunities to see Renée only arose following the grave injury of one of his men. Their meetings also required another plunge into that emotionally draining crypt which left Gene feeling less and less equipped to handle the needs of his own men each time. With every inch the Jeep crept closer to the Bastogne aid station, the pitter-patter of Gene’s heart accelerated, the rhythm increasingly irregular—his guilt grew, too. The young medic had enough decency to feel ashamed at his own joy, Smokey and the others’ pain nothing to derive pleasure from. But it simply wasn’t to be helped.

Gene relished any occasion to see the pretty French healer. 

Still, there was an awful gnawing sensation disturbing him as he descended into the cathedral’s basement behind Smokey’s stretcher, and when Renée was visibly excited to see him, as well, Gene put a name to this bothersome new emotion: worry. The feeling was his own, the Empath worrying that their magical connection was a dangerous distraction from their life-saving work. A knot twisting in the pit of his stomach, Gene all but ignored Renée, lingering only long enough to make sure the doctor would tend to Smokey properly, before he promptly exited church.

Outside, he waited.

She joined him some twenty minutes later beneath, Gene sensed, a growing cloud of contrition that echoed many of his own musings regarding their newfound relationship as magical, medical kindred spirits. The young nurse sat, silently withdrawing a chocolate bar, which she swiftly cracked into bite-sized pieces, extending a lopsided corner to Gene. He accepted the sweet offering, speculating faintly as to just how many of the Hershey goods she had squirreled away, and as he savored his first bite, Renée sighed. “I wasn’t even supposed to be here, you know.”

Whipping off her blue headscarf like a prisoner’s shackles, Renée frowned with a touch of bitterness. As a dusting of mid-morning snow began to fall, her dark braids began to catch tiny flakes of snow. **“** This is my parents’ home. I came from Brussels to visit them for the holiday two days before the first German raid.” She fiddled with the chocolate wrapper. “Do you see the blue building just there?”

Gene felt the precise moment Renée’s knowing guilt turned to sorrow. The depth of the new emotion, as well as the swiftness with which her feelings changed, took Gene’s breath. With a gasp, he floundered momentarily before struggling to block out the unconscious impressions of the one person Gene willingly let in. Renée muttered a soft _désolé,_ glancing away in embarrassment. Gene shook his head fiercely. “Don’t—don’t be sorry. My fault.”

Clearing his throat, Gene took several calming breaths, focused on his heartbeat, and reached for Renée’s hand, sending a wave of _its okay, everything’s alright, we’re alright._ When their eyes met, her gaze was damp. “That building was my father’s shop.”

The previously tall building was now little more than a one-story skeleton. Only two walls remained, broken window frames watching the street like hollowed eyes. Gene held onto the faint trances of Renée’s sorrow, and though he knew the answer to his next question, he knew it was right that he should ask—if only to give her the space to give voice to feelings which she had so obvious buried deep. “Where are your parents now?”

“Dead. They died during the first raid along with one of my sisters, Marguerite.”

Gene gave the young nurse’s hands a long squeeze. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

He let her experience it, his sympathy, his remorse, his worry and affection for her—all of it whirling together, a great tornado of _feeling_. Renée tightened her own grasp on Gene’s hands. “Je sais.”

The next few moments passed in silence, their joint emotions surging freely between the pair, and there was a finality about it all that Gene both understood and did not wish to accept.

Eventually, Renée donned her headscarf once more, gathering the folds of her apron and skirt as she stood. “I have to go help Anna feed the men.” He rose to his feet beside her, and with a terrible tenderness, she placed a sweet kiss on his cheek. Her lips were chapped, his skin was cold. “Bonne chance, Eugene.” Then, with the hint of rueful smile hiding in her dimples, she added, “I hope I do not see you back here soon.” 

And though he knew it was for the best, Gene’s heart broke a little as he watched her go and his ability to remain standing was due only to the fact that he knew that the acute ache in his heart was not his alone. This, like the chocolate bar, they too shared.

* * *

It happened on Christmas Eve.

The ruins of the cathedral on Rue de Neufchateau, Bastogne, came into view as they made their approach. Gene vaulted himself from the Jeep before it stopped, tripping over his feet as he propelled himself forward, his body operating on reserves of energy he had previously assumed were long gone. Stumbling, his steps faltered a few feet from the collapsed entry, the smoke and flames dueling as they lapped mercilessly at the black night sky.

“Garçon?”

His head whipped around at the sound of the brassy but undeniably feminine voice. The woman’s dark skin was coated in ashes and marred by cuts and bruises, and it took Gene a moment to recognize the dark-skinned nurse that worked with Renée. “Anna?”

Her face was an expressionless void—but there was no hiding her grief from Gene.

“Where—” the Empath’s voice broke.

In Congolese French, Anna explained that Renée had been helping to evacuate the wounded when the German raid began. That the young nurse had been inside when the shell dropped and the cathedral collapsed. That, thus far, no survivors had been found among the wreckage.

Gene half-listened as she spoke, a million denials already dancing on the tip of his tongue, his head shaking violently, protesting of its own accord. “That’s not right. That’s not—” Stumbling backwards, he ignored Anna’s cries and charged the smoldering rubble. The dark-skinned nurse was _wrong_. She had to be. She didn’t know that Renée was magic and that she would have survived because her gifts would have protected her.

But then, just inside the doors, something blue caught his eye in the firelight.

Renée’s headscarf clutched in his cold grasp, Gene experienced a fury unlike any other. “It doesn’t make any sense…doesn’t…” _Renée was_ magic _, a healer for Christ’s sake! Even if she_ had _been wounded, surely she could have healed herself. She would have! So, where was she? This didn’t make sense. This wasn’t right. It didn’t feel right. How could she have—!_

Across the square, an agonized moan rang out. The offending soldier cradled his head in the snow, weeping. His companions—a medic and a fellow paratrooper—knelt at his side to aid him, but then, they too slipped suddenly into near fits of madness. The medic threw his head skyward, mouth agape as he screamed wildly; the paratrooper turned from his friends to kick and punch an overturned Jeep, the sickening crack of his knuckles shattering against the steel platted undercarriage. Behind Gene, Anna’s carefully placed mask of indifference had slipped, and the woman was openly sobbing, tears leaving streaks in the ashes upon her cheeks. Somewhere down the road that led further into town, a woman shrieked and children wailed.

All around Gene, his anger and pain rippled out—a stone’s throw in a pond—and the world responded.

In spite of his suffering, Gene understood that he needed to reign it in. That he couldn’t unleash his torment on the world, especially not _here_ where _misery with a chance of fatality_ was the daily forecast. He had to stop. He had to control it. He had to calm down.

But, with Renée gone, who was there to calm him now?

* * *

After the war—after Austrian sunshine and German surrender and the narrow avoidance of redeployment to the Pacific theatre—, Gene heard rumors. Rumors of a woman in Mobile with magical, healing hands. Rumors of a girl in Jackson who saved a man’s life after he’d been struck by a train. Rumors of a traveling lady inquiring about Cajun Traiteurs and Empaths.

But rumors were just that—and Gene hardened his heart against any shred of hope.

* * *

“And take this by Mr. Ambrose’s place, yeah?”

Marcel nodded, dropping yet another bottle into the crate for his afternoon rounds. “Does that ornery, old man got the shits again? Serves him right.”

Gene hummed, noncommittally. “This time, I put a little lagniappe in it for him.”

His cousin smiled wickedly. “You puttin’ a little gris-gris on ‘em, Gene? What would grand-momma say?”

Since his return to Morgan City, Gene had resumed operations at his late grandmother’s herb shop. For nearly ten months, Gene had been treating the good people of St. Mary’s parish, along with a couple more folks from on down the river. When he returned from the Pacific, Gene’s cousin Marcel joined him at the shop, as the young Marine was the only other magically inclined member of their family. Though Gene was more naturally gifted, Marcel had a knack for building easy, friendly rapports with their customers, never failing to cheer up the sick and wounded despite their vulnerable state.

Marcel provided a necessary balance to Gene’s own chronically pensive countenance, and after everything, Gene was grateful not to be alone.

“You comin’ to Henrietta’s tonight?”

The Empath peeked up at his cousin but declined to reply. Voice dripping with conspiratorial glee, Marcel added, “She’s makin’ courtbouillon.”

Gene hesitated as he continued to shift through the Monday morning inventory. “Maybe,” he relented eventually, regretting it immediately as Marcel flashed a fox-like grin and shouted, “Great! See ya there, cuz!” before he slipped out the front door, nearly toppling an incoming customer in the process. “Ooh, pardon me, cher.”

“Ce n'est pas de problème.”

Gene froze.

No, it was impossible.

Only— _that_ voice coupled with _that particular_ brand of resolute calm? The familiar emotion swirled in Gene’s chest and coiled protectively around his heart, stealing his breath in the process. In an instant, his magic began to reach for the source of the delightful sensation, and as it warmed him, Gene knew it could only be her. But then, she was dead, wasn’t she? Long gone, lost to that horrendous siege during that horrible war.

Yet when Gene turned to face the door, there she stood in his grandmother’s shop. _Renée._

“Bonjour, Eugene.” Her smile was blinding, though Gene felt the nerves blossoming beneath her skin. “I have been looking for you.”

Heart kicking like a colt against his ribs, Gene rounded the store’s front counter to stand before her. The Angel of Bastogne. Renée, la guérisseuse _._ His _friend_ , whose dark hair was now free of its blue headscarf—the same scarf he’d used to patch a trooper’s bloodied hand—and resting on her shoulders, loose curls cascading over the top of light pink dress that cinched at the waist with a ribbon and revealed shapely legs no longer hidden by layers of worn stockings. A lovely blush to her cheeks, Renée looked every bit a dream. Perhaps, it was a dream. Lord knows, Gene had passed many a sleepless night with thoughts of her, his lost companion. _How could this be?_

His surprise and confusion were only out measured by his relief.

“I thought you were dead.”

“I am sorry, Gene.” And he felt it, her sincerity, the depth of her regret and her heartache on his behalf. “After, when I found Anna and she told me you both thought…well, I thought I should not seek you out. We were both…” She gave a frustrated sigh as she struggled over her words. “You had your duty, and I was sent back to Brussels to work at a proper hospital. I did not wish to distract you…and I knew that _I_ could not afford to be distracted. We—we had lives to save, Eugene.”

Though he recognized the truth of her words, Gene couldn’t fight his own sorrow. “I grieved for you.” _I thought I was alone._ With this gift. With the burden of responsibility. Without _her._

“Je suis trés désolé, Eugene.” Tears welling in her eyes, Renée reached for him, clasping his hands firmly in her own. “This is why I came. To find you.”

“To apologize?” Gene asked, his heart fluttering wildly at her touch. Her skin was still rough, hardened by war, but her touch was gentle and loving—and it set him on fire. The young Empath was all nerves and hope, drowning in the sheer amazement of it all that _she was_ here _in his home after all this time._ Renée was _alive,_ and she had sought him out.

“Oui, to find you. Et…” She gave a sweet, if somewhat shy smile. “Et guérir. To heal you.”

His grandmother’s shop exploded with emotion. They swirled around the quaint store, brushing over the floorboards and slipping between canisters of herbs and oils. The sentiments skated along Gene’s skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. He wasn’t sure which feelings belonged to whom, exactly—all the sorrow and hope and guilt and longing—, but he was sure that, underneath it all, the strongest emotion he felt was love. A true, burning, enduring _love_ that was shared by the two of them. 

Renée’s grin turned playful as Gene looked at her in wonder.

“I am a Healer, after all.”

* * *

After the war—after the men of Easy Company had settled back into civilian life, some more easily than others—, the men heard rumors. Rumors that Gene had brought him home a war bride. Rumors that she was a gorgeous French broad, full of class and well-educated. Rumors that together, Gene and the woman operated the most successful regional clinic in central Louisiana. Rumors that she had been there in Bastogne. Some of the fellas even thought they might have met her once.

But rumors were just that—and when Gene and Renée attended the first of Bill Guarnere’s many company reunions, Gene was more than happy to set the rumors right.


End file.
